


Change the Game

by Kitexa



Category: Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Drama, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-05
Updated: 2012-08-05
Packaged: 2017-11-11 12:25:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/478532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitexa/pseuds/Kitexa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The game has been changed. The story rewritten. Things have gone very very wrong. Someone else rules the Grid and Kevin Flynn is gone. Sam's still got his work cut out for him but who's going help him now? Legacy AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Change the Game

The Grid: a digital frontier. A technological world within the heart of a computer. A world with endless opportunities. A world that can bend and twist to ways of the mind of anyone who has a vision: anyone who can _create_.  


And if that someone desires to _change_ the System, if they wish to throw away its old design and start from scratch, then so be it. Worlds are meant for recreating, and a digital one is no different. It is like a game really: with each new changeeach new level of accomplishmentthe System grows and changes in a way that would only serve to benefit its players.  


And as long as those players follow the rules, a few alterations here and there serve only to benefit the Grid.  


But _ignore_ those rules, and things start to go wrong.  


The game starts to change...

\--------------------------------------------------------------

She had gone out again.  


Waited until he had found something to preoccupy himself with and sped off in that four-wheeled vehicle of hers. Not that he blames her, of courseshe is unlike him in that way: still younganxious and eager to explore the world around her despite its constant dangers. He.well, he supposes he felt that way many cycles ago.back before It happened. Before his world succumbed to the corruption and tyranny of a power-hungry dictator.

Remorsefully, he turns his head towards the green-black sky, a thin line forming on his lips. He dislikes being so detached from the Gridhis homebut it is a necessity time has taught him to accept. To appreciate eventhough _that_ has taken quite a bit longer.

He shakes his head, reprimanding himself for allowing his mind to drift once again. No wonder she had escaped his notice so easily: he spends more time in his head than he ever had on patrol.long ago though that had been. Of course, back then, there had been three of them, so projects had reached completion far more quickly than they did now. Personal projects, anyway: his previous position had been self-terminated long ago. Back when he deemed himself an "imperfection" to the ways of the Integrator and chose to remove himself from the Equation.

In effect: he had gone into hidingand he had taken _her_ with himdooming them both to an exile's life of isolation and regret. At least, _he_ feels regret: her youth and spunk keeps her from falling into those deep states of melancholy that so often claim him.

Just another of his _imperfections_ .

It is then he notices the faint tap-tap of footwear on hardened ground, approaching him from his backside. Two sets, if he were to be more precise: one light and quick, each sound a rhythmic "ta-ta-tap, ta-ta-tap" against the glossy floor...the other a heavier, off-beat step: as if hesitant whether to keep in time with its musical counterpart, or take a slower, cautious approach forward.  


__Intriguing_._

His hands grip the armrests of his obsidian chair, but he keeps his back to the approaching footsteps: unwilling to allow himself to spoil the moment. Foolish, really, but anticipation has given way to excitement: if he is correct.that second set of footsteps does not belong to just anyone.  


"Sir?"  


He smiles as her voice reaches his ears, well aware that the more musical of the two strides belongs to her.  


"Yes, Quorra" he replies, his voice tense as a flicker of curiosity sparks within him.  


Quorra walks forward, and within minutes, he feels her gloved hand on his shoulder. "We have a guest."  


A guest? So it appears his previous assumptions were not so foolish after all. 

"Picked him up on the grid." Quorra continues, moving once again so that she is in his line of vision. "The Integrator had him participating in the games." She flashes him that quirky character smile of hers, obviously pleased with what she has done. Indeed, if this guest is who he hopes it is, then she has very good reason for such pleasure. "I rescued him; thought he might be the one you were looking for."

"I see." He replies, taking a few, brief seconds for her words to sink in. Quorra has never been Outside before.but she is very perceptive and as such, the possibility that she _has_ rescued _him_ ranges anywhere from seventy to one hundred percent.  
In any case, there is only one way to find out.  


"Thank you, Quorra." He says, pushing back his chair and rising to his feet. He stands still for a moment, collecting both his thoughts and his mannerisms. Far too much time has passed since his last encounter with the Outside.and now, to have a part of it just a few feet away is a.lot to take in. Especially given who it might be.  


Ah, but he is stalling now...time to rectify that.  


"I apologize for not introducing myself sooner." He begins, clasping his hands together in front of him. "This is as much a shock for me as it is for you."  


There is silence for a moment from his guestnot that he is surprised. Nerves are often the bane of anyone's existence, regardless of what world they resided in. Eventually, however, a bitter reply drifts from _his_ mouth: "I highly doubt _that._ "

Doubt? Ah, so he doubts as well. _Fascinating._

"You may be surprised by this," he replies, his own tone one of polite professionalism, "but you and I share a connection, Alan One." Alan One.how long it has been since he has spoken that name...far too long, he decides as he turns around. So long, in fact, that the name sounds foreign on his...  


Suddenly, he stops, his thoughts halted by a startling realization. Standing before him is not Alan One. He is male, and he is from the Outside.but he is not Alan One. Not that he himself has ever seen him...but cycles back he had received a description...and the one before him now does not match it. His gaze flits back to Quorra, disapproval crossing his features. _A mistake_ , he tells her silently, _you have made a mistake._  


_A mistake?_ She seems to answer, her eyes widening, as if _he_ is the one who is mistaken.  
For all her youth and wisdom, she still has much to learn.  


Which is where he is forced to leave the matter: a protest of questioning from the unidentified User interrupting them.  


"Alan-One?" their guest asks, drawing both his and Quorra's attention. "Who's that?"  


There is a flash in the User's eyesa flash that looks much like suspected recognition: as if the answer lay just beyond his reach.  


How...unexpected.  


"Alan-One" he answers in a matter of factif not slightly pridefultone "is my Creator."  


There is no doubt about it this time: recognition consumes the User's face as his statement registers.  


"... _Tron..._ "  


Were this a typical situation, the sound of his name from lips other than Quorra's or his own would have delighted him: it has been such a long time since anyone has spoken to himmuch less of him.  


The Integrator had taken care of _that_.  


"Yes...I am." He replies slowly, taking time now to study the User closely. The odds someone from Outside would recognize him is exceedingly rareless than 1 out of 100 evenand yet...this User clearly knows who he is.  


But how?  


_That_ , he cannot answer. His knowledge of Outside spans only from the time before the Integrator. Back when Kevin Flynn shared with him stories of his life and the world in which he lived.

Again, the User pulls him from his thoughts, uttering his name in the form of a question. "Tron...you... _you_ were the one who paged me?"  
Once again, Tron is thrown off guard: page him? He did not even know this User's namewhy would he.  




...Hold on...  


"That page," He says after a few seconds of thought, "was meant for my _creator_." He steps back with his left foot, spreading his legs further apart should he have to assume a battle stance. A bit drastic perhaps, but it is safer to assume everyone is an enemy than succumb to the false pretenses of friendship.  


He had learned that the hard way.  


"How did _you_ receive it?"  


As he waits for the User to respond, Tron takes a few moments to study his appearance further. He is much much younger than Alan One should have beenjudging by what Flynn had said in the past, at least. Programs and Users did _not_ age at the same paceafter all, he is considered an older program, but his facial features still look as they did upon his creation.  


Yet the more he studies their unidentified guest, the more he begins to feel as though he has in fact, seen him somewhere before.  


The rounded structure of his face: flat, undersized chin, narrow, tipped nose, high forehead.  


His body mass: above average build distinguishable beneath his glowing armor.  


Skin tone: a palebut not unhealthily sopeach-tan coloring, cheeks and nose highlighted in pink due to blood rush.  


Hair: short, and thickneither blond nor brown, but somewhere in between.  


Crystalline blue eyes: clear and bright as the Portal itself once was.  


"Your creator, Alan One?" The user begins suddenly, diverting Tron's attention away from his physical appearance, "He sent me. Well, not sent me, really. Told me to check out dad's old office. Said he'd meet up with me later." The user pauses. "...which...didn't exactly happen."  


Were he human, Tron had no doubt he would have inhaled sharply, holding his breath in startled realization at the identity of this User. As it is, he simply stares, eyes widening around the edges as his inner workings put the pieces of this puzzle together. His youth, appearance and referral to Flynn as "dad".  


Why has he not seen it sooner?  


"You...are Sam Flynn." He states in a tone that expresses far more acceptance than he feels at the moment.  


If Sam Flynn is really here...  


Beside him, Quorra stiffens slightly; a sign _she_ has realized it as well.  


They have indeed stumbled across far more than they intended to bargain for.  


"Yeah...I am." The Useror Sam, now that he has been identifiedanswers, taking a step forward. His brow rises in questioning: eyes round with confusion. "How'd you know that?"  
In another place in time, he would have liked to believe the three of them would take the time to sit down, sharing stories of their respected worlds and getting to know each other as he had with Kevin Flynn.  


But nowadays, time cannot be wasted with such things as acquainting oneself with a companion's child. Because there _is no more time_.  


Not if Sam Flynn has been on the Grid.  


Not if the Integrator has identified him.  


"... _Tron_?" Sam asks again, this time adopting an edgier tone of voice. "How'd you know who I was?"  


It is the only way he knows how to answer. The only way he can think to ease their way into the more pressing subject at hand. "Your father told me."  


The transition works: Sam Flynn visibly flinches upon reference to his father, his lips parting as if to speak, but no words come out.  
So he _does_ know.  


Which means, most likely, that the Integrator does as well.  


"Sam." Tron starts, and the young user's eyes immediately lock with his own. _I am unaware of how much you know of what has transpired in this world since you have last heard, but we are in a very bad situation that your arrival has...changed._ That, however, was a bit much to say to their newly-arrived guest. At least, right away. So what does he do? Puts his anxieties on hold, takes a step forward, and _smiles_. "It is a pleasure to finally meet face to face."

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Time passes, and with each second lost he grows more and more impatient. They really cannot afford to wait any longerand yet they must, because Sam Flynn does not yet understand why they need to act _why_ they cannot afford to wait.  
Which is why all three are now seated in his make-shift shelter: he to one chair, Sam to anotheropposite himwith Quorra reclining on the couch off to the side. She gives him a curious look, before her gaze shifts to Sam, eying him inquisitively. Tron watches her, and for the first time he is beginning to see into her previous mistake: why she thought this User might have been the one he had been searching for. She possesses only two distinct User descriptions in her memory: the first is Alan One, and the second is Kevin Flynn. As previously noted, Sam's resemblance to the latter is extraordinary.  
On that note, he again abandons his thought process, and for the second time since his arrival, locks eyes with the young User seated across from him. However, it is Sam who speaks before he has the chance, his posture bent forward slightlyone hand gripping his chair's armrest. "What.what are you doing here, Tron? So far from--"  
"From the Grid?"  
"Yeah."  
Tron's sullen features morph into a sad half-smile, and he too leans forward, lowering his voice. "Surviving."

"Surviving?" Sam echoes, though the tone in which it is spoken suggests disbelief. "Or hiding?"

From the corner of his eye, Tron catches Quorra quirking one of her dark eyebrows, Sam's question written across her face. _Is that what we have been doing?_ She asks him silently, obviously having never thought of it that way before. 

"I suppose you could say we have been doing both." He says finally, choosing to answer both their questions with one reply. Hiding.surviving.it is really all the same at this point: as long as Quorra remains out of reach and he avoids repurposing. If _that_ were to happen, there really would be no hope.

However, as a User who thinks first with emotion and second with logic, Sam fails to see this. "So you've been sitting out here, while everything else falls to _shit_? That doesn't sound like the Tron my dad told me about."

He does something then that he wishes he had not: his professional mask cracks and he allows his face to fill with _anger._ "That is because the Tron you associated my name with comes from a moment in your childhood before everythingas you have said _fell to shit_. But, like you, I have changed since that time, Sam Flynn. I am not the program I once was." With a subtle hand gesture he directs Sam's attention to the circuitry lining his armora glowing neutral white in contrast to the blue of old. 

There is a brief silence on Sam's end, and the shift of his facial features suggests he has only now noticed the unusual coloring of Tron's armor. "White? What does" A slight chuckle. "The figure on my dresser pegged you down for _blue_ lights."

The anger subsides: he joins Sam with a slight laugh of his own as an old memory surfaces. He has only seen a "figure" once before; when one accompanied Kevin Flynn to the Grid so many cycles ago.

...to this day, he had yet to grasp the purpose of a three-inch piece of plastic in his likeness.

But he was getting off track again. 

"My circuitry used to be blue, you are right." He answers Sam, leaning back in his chair once more. "Back when I had a purpose. " He pauses, and his gaze leaves the young User's face, staring past him into the fiery lights of the City off in the distance. "Now, however, I have none, and thus, my colors became white." 

Sam is quick to reply, and there is a childish defiance in his tone as he does so. "What? But you're _Tron._ You fight for the Users!" His brow is knit into his forehead: as if this declaration of neutrality greatly upsets him.

For a moment, Tron cannot help but wonder if Kevin Flynn had painted him as a hero in his son's eyes as a child.

Current mannerisms would suggest as such.

"I _use_ to fight for the Users." He replies, observing his guest's face carefully, "but things have--"

"--changed, I know." Sam finishes, reaching up with a hand to support his head as it sags forward. "I've been hearing that a lot lately." Like his cranium, the rest of Sam's body starts to lean, lower and lower until he abruptly places both hands on his knees, and pushes himself to his feet with a grunt. Tron watches as he stands, takes a step or two, runs his hand through his hair, then walks behind his chair and repeats the previous motions. "I just don't _get_ it." Sam Flynn alleges, his back turned to the program still watching him. "He said things were going so _well_....I mean with you two and the Grid...and then the Miracle he used to talk about, I just don't." 

He is clearly distraught: like a washed up program upon receiving their termination sentence. Not that he is to be blamed, of course...this would be an exceeding amount to take in for any User, much less the son of Kevin Flynn. Still...comfort must be given if they are to proceed any time soon, but while Tron is searching for the right words Sam swivels back around, and bridges the gap for him. "I'm almost afraid to ask this but...what _happened_ here? To my dad...to everyone?"

For all the violence and chaos that has occurred over the many many cycles that have passed, only two words need be used in his response to that question.

"CLU." He answers darkly " _CLU_ happened." 

That name jump starts his anger like a spark from two wires, and he promptly stands, heading for the balcony without so much as a word to his guest. He knows Quorra will corral him out here shortlyshe is prone to take charge when left alonemight as well put his thoughts in order until then.

_CLU_. He hates that name. Hates _it, and_ the program it belongs to. To this day he has never forgiven him for the chaos...the destruction and genocide he has caused, nor will he ever, despite what Flynn had said.

_"It isn't his fault, Tron. It's mine. I made him, and any flaws in his programming are flaws in my thinking, you understand?"_

He did not. Or rather, _would not_. Flynn was a very advanced User, and had created a very advanced program. Ignorance did not excuse violence.

The sound of approaching footsteps halts his interior monologuejust as he predicted, Quorra has followed through for him.

"Thank you, Quorra" He says, and again returns to silence: debating the best way to begin. He must choose his words carefully, for this is _not_ going to be easy. For himself...and especially for Sam.

In the end, however, Tron chooses to start with a question. 

"How much do you know about the Miracle?" He asks, turning his head to meet his guest's eyes.

Sam remains still for a momentthe base of his mouth twitchingbefore he gives his response. "Honestly?" he sighs "Only that it happened. Dad never got the chance to tell me before he disappeared." His voice drops an octave, filling itself with remorse, not that he can blame the younger Flynn. They both know his father did not simply _disappear_ .but that word is more familiar. And much easier to say.

"I see." Tron says, more to himself than Sam. His eyes leave his then, glancing briefly at a tight-lipped Quorra before resting his gaze out over the rocky terrain below their hideaway. Not once since he left the Grid has he considered it a haven: a place where, despite past efforts, the Integrator had yet to track them down. This place.so far away from society, had always been a prison in his eyes. Nothing to do and nowhere to go unless he should venture out on the Grid, in which case he would be immediately discovered.

And if _he_ were discovered, Quorra would be as well. And that was something he would _not_ allow to happen. For Flynn's sake, he had sworn not to.

At least, until now.

"Then I suppose, Sam Flynn," he says suddenly, drawing attention to himself, "that I should start from the beginning."

And so he does. He tells him of the day they discovered those Isomorphic algorithmshow his father viewed these "Isos" (for that was easier on the tongue had had a 'charming ring' to it) as a _miracle_ : a new link between man and machine that wouldas Flynn put itchange both worlds in ways neither CLU nor Tron himself could possibly fathom. Oh...but the former _had_ fathomed it. Subtly at firstmannerisms stiffened in their presence and tone shifted to curt, edgy responses laced with an undertone that neither he nor Flynn can identify. He tried confronting Flynn about it, but received assurance that CLU is simply _jealous_ and _uncomfortable_ that his creator's attention has shifted towards the Isos. This seemed plausible and yet, something did not sit right with Tron. But, as his purpose is to fight (align himself with) the User, he did not contradict Flynn. Yet, he did not trust CLU either. Not completely, and he took it upon himself to observe the other program, if only to ensure his current state never escalated into something they could not control. 

Until CLU figured it out.

_"Listen, man"_ he had said, approaching Tron while they waited for Flynn's arrival, _"I don't interfere with_ you _doing your job, right? So_ don't _interfere with mine."_ He had kept his tone light casual but Tron recognized a threat when he heard one. He recognized something else as well.

CLU was _evolving._

"I take it you didn't tell my dad then." Sam Flynn interrupts, face twisting into an ugly grimace.  
Tron shakes his head. "I tried. But once CLU realized I was watching _him_ , he retaliated by doing the same to me."

Before Sam can question his response, he continues recounting his memories. He tells him again that his efforts to alert his father of the possible danger became more and more difficult as CLU's watchful eyes wavered less and less. How he was forced to look on as the other program led Flynn to believe he was the one acting upmalfunctioning. How maybe _he_ should take a _break_ from their work: why use three when two could just as easily do the job?

And when he realized for the first time that CLU's idea of "imperfection" consisted of complete, unquestionable loyalty to his word. His _way_. Tron did not fit into CLU's equation and therefore, CLU sought to eliminate him: if not by extermination then by swaying Flynn to his side. And Flynn _did_ sway: what reason did he have to doubt a computerized copy of himself? 

_"Don't worry, man,"_ he had said, clapping the security program on the shoulder, _"we got it covered."_

His intentions were of the most earnest intentions.but in the end, they only served as his downfall.

And gave CLU the upper hand. 

For shortly after Tron's removal. _It_ happened.

 

"Genocide." Quorra finishes instead, her voice quiet and streaked with melancholy. He looks over at her, but her eyes are on Sam, sadness etched into her face. He wonders if she is planning to reveal herself to himin which case he should step in immediatelybut she remains quiet, and he allows her a brief moment of silence for those she lost.  
It does not last long, however: aware all eyes are on her, Quorra lifts her head, shifting in apparent discomfort and looking his way. _Continue?_  
A subtle half-smile plays on his lips, but it vanishes instantly, and he resumes his tale.

 

Despite Flynn's assurance they "had it covered," Tron's lack of trust in CLU continued to grow. He began _following_ themfrom a safe distance, so as not to be discoveredas a precaution. He still did not know the extent CLU had changed, and as such, could not risk letting him go about unsupervised.  


In the end, however, his surveillance mattered very little.when CLU finally snapped, not even Tron's programming was enough to stop him. Oh he triedjumped straight into the fray with both discs aglow in his handsbut he had not counted on CLU's followers. Repurposed programs fighting mindlessly for the corrupt CLU and his _perfect system_ .as ignorant as their leader towards the innocents they brutally struck down.  


Outnumbered and outmatched, they had had no choice to retreatactivate their Light Cycles and leave the Isos to CLU's mercy.  


It affected Flynn the most: his miraclethe miracle he was going to change the world withbeing destroyed by something he created. Perhaps that is why he rescued her: as a last attempt to salvage what the world otherwise would have lost. This, however, he does not share with Sam, instead skipping directly to the day his father made his decision.  


_"Tron"_ he had announced one day, _"This isn't right, man! Us sitting here while he's out there doing who knows what to the System! We gotta do something about it!"_  


Indeed, something needed to be done about CLU...but what? The only way to cease his rampage was to destroy him from the Outsidean impossible feat now that the portal had closed. And trying to take him down from inside was equally impossible.  


He reminded Flynn of thatthat there was nothing they could do to stop the former member of their team. But his friend only shook his head, his turn to do the reminding. There was _one_ thing they could try. One riskypotentially suicidalthing.

He tried to talk Flynn out of it; CLU was too powerful. Too dangerous. There was no telling what might happen should he attempt to follow through with this.  
Each time, the response was the same: _"It isn't his fault, Tron. It's mine. I made him, and any flaws in his programming are flaws in my thinking, you understand?"_

Oh he understoodbut that did not mean he accepted it. The odds that something will go wrong are incredibly high. 

_"This is not a good idea."_

_"I know."_

_"Then why"_

_"Because I couldn't live with myself if I didn't try."_

Kevin Flynn-the User...the Creator-looked so tired...so _defeated_ . that Tron finally agreed to his friend's risky plan.

He wished he had not. Wished he had listened to that sense of foreboding coursing through his system as they sped through the Grid on their cycles. Wished he had cut Flynn off as they tore through CLU's army, running over some and slicing into others with their discs.

Wished he had interfered as his friend sent out that shock-wave...

 

"It didn't work, obviously." Sam observes with a tight voice and curled hands. 

"No." Tron replies heavily, "it did not. The integration process proved too much for your father. CLU's presence overwhelmed himpoisoned him. _Changed_ him. The User I entered the Grid with was not the same one I left behind." 

His voice dies then, and with it, his energy. Cycles have passed since he has talked of the past in such detail...he feels drained.

Sam, however, is not yet through asking questions. "Is that...why you left him behind?" The emotion is strong in his voice, as is the expression in his cerulean eyes.

It pains him to have to answer...but he has already revealed so much...there would be no point in concealing this last bit of information. "Yes...I had no choice." He answers, his tone tainted by unresolved guilt. "My job was to fight for the User, but the Integrator"

" my _dad._ "

" _formally_ your 'dad,' was neither. Or rather, he was _both_ : User and Program integrated into one being."

"Which is why he's called the Integrator." Quorra adds, to which Sam replies with a sullen "yeah.I.I kinda figured." He then turns back to Tron. "So you've been hiding out here this whole time?" 

"I have." A glance at Quorra. "We have. The Grid's hostile environment only grew worse after the integration occurred. No place for any sort _imperfection_." 

"But why"

Once again, Quorra jumps in. "Because of our _discs_." She explains, detaching hers from her back.

Sam's brow quirks. 

The dark-haired Iso looks back at Tron, as if to seeking permission to continue. He grants it to her. "...if we tried to take down the Integrator, we'd probably get caught. Repurposed. Which wouldn't be good because then no one would remember anything."

The eyebrow stays up.

She really _does_ have much to learn.

"What Quorra means, Sam," He elaborates "is that we are the only two who remember the integration. Our discsour _memories_ pose a threat to the Integrator, for they contain evidence that this world he has spent cycles ' _perfecting_ ' is _flawed_." He pauses, checking to see if Sam understood. He seemed tohis brow lowers and his head bobs forward in a short nod. Yet.for all his explaining, something still bothers the young User. Not.in a troubling waybehavior does not suggest anxiousnessbut rather... _confusion._

"So...why'd you page AlanerOne, again?" 

Ah.

Yes.

The _page_. With all this past drama, he had nearly brushed it asidepast memories reigning more important than present actions.

Of course, that was not _actually_ the case, and thanks to Sam's questioning, his attention snaps back to the current.situation at hand.

"The reason I sent that page" he begins, one hand curling lightly at his side, "is because I wanted to." He pauses, contemplating the best way to finish his sentence "...alter the playing field by adding a _wild card."_ His lip twitchesas if unsure whether to smile or frownas he continues "The Integrator's iron rule is due to CLU's never-ending crusade for perfection. Approaching him as we weretwo _imperfect_ programs would end in our repurposing." He raises his curled hand, observing it with a kind of determination. "Alan One was a friend of Flynn's from the Outside. I thought he might have been able to draw out Flynn's consciousness from within the Integrator's mind. And perhaps find a way to override CLU's repurposed programs' systems. However," and here his arm drops, "I did not expect you to come in his stead."

Sam laughs nervously. "Yeah, well...neither did I."

Silence falls: three sets of eyes simultaneously drift back towards the glimmering city in the distance. Somewhere within its heart, the Integrator was preparing his next move. He had seen Samseen him compete, seen him escape, seen his capabilities, and the potential threat he posed to his empire. No doubt he regretted the young User's escape, regretted his failure to sway Sam to his side.in a manner similar to how CLU had swayed Flynn so long ago.

But times had changed: The User was on _his_ side now. Sam Flynn. Son of Kevin Flynn.

Son of the Integrator.

When he thinks about it, things have turned out better than he could have hoped. Sam's technical experience may not be up to par with his creator's, but he possesses something Alan One did not.

Flynn's name.

Flynn's blood.

And, if he is correct, the young User may also possess Flynn's mind.

Which is all he needs to turn the tables in his favor.

"So." Sam interrupts suddenly, an inquisitive look on his face. "...what now?"

A smile tugs at Tron's lip. "Now?" he echoes, with a surge of new-found energy. "We change the game."

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive me if Tron seems out of character--if anyone does. When I wrote this, last year, I had only seen the original film once.


End file.
